


Well Suited

by robocryptid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 02:43:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: Sombra and Widowmaker attempt an undercover mission at a fancy party. Widow manages to surprise Sombra more than once.





	Well Suited

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Theoroark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theoroark/gifts).



> Written for the wonderful Theoroark. Thank you so much for your support!

It’s funny that after Akande, it’s Sombra who’s supposed to be best with people. She supposes that’s true enough, though she rarely tries the polished and charming route. It doesn’t fit her nature, and she always thinks the mark can sense how false it is.

But rich people are used to hanging around liars. Maybe it feels normal to them.

Akande says it’s good to have an extra pair of eyes and ears, but Sombra would have to be very stupid to take him at face value. He doesn’t trust her. She doesn’t mind much anyway.

“So,” she says, eying Widowmaker up and down. “How do you want to do this? Do we go in separately? Together?”

“Together,” Widow answers, impassive as always. No further comment.

“And we’ll be what? A couple of heiresses? Socialites? Do we need a story for the boring small talk?”

Widow’s mouth curves a little. “No. If we are _together_ , they will not want to interrupt.”

“Together?” It takes Sombra a moment, and then she laughs. “Can you do that? I mean, no offense but you’re a little—” Sombra waves her hand “—standoffish?”

“All the better to keep nosy types at bay,” Widow says. “I can be convincing. I was a married woman once.” There’s a bite to her voice that Sombra thinks she understands but doesn’t care to pursue; Widow may claim not to feel much, but Sombra doubts she enjoys that it wasn’t even her own choice to kill her husband. Sombra doesn’t like it either. “And you? Can you be convincing?”

Sombra eyes her again, more slowly this time. “I can manage,” she says. If she didn’t know better, she might think Widow’s blushing.

 

* * *

 

She arrives at the car five minutes early, but Widow has beaten her there anyway. Sombra is a little grateful. Walking gives her something more to do than stare. Widow’s in a sharp black suit. Like most of her clothing, it’s tailored to fit her almost too well; unlike most of her clothing, it looks like Widow herself had a say in its details. The high white collar is fussy and ruffled, but the vest and jacket are nothing but clean, severe angles. Her shoulders seem broader, hips slimmer. The narrow taper of the trousers combines with her sleek black heels to turn her into one towering, lean line. Sombra’s not sure how she got used to Widow’s catsuits and perpetually exposed cleavage only to find herself flustered by something buttoned tight from the neck down.

So few people manage to surprise Sombra these days. She has to pause to make some minor adjustments to her previous assumptions.

In the car, Sombra says, “The suit was unexpected. You look nice.”

“Thank you.” Widow shifts and Sombra can just see the shape of the small holster hidden under her jacket. It’s subtle if you don’t know to look for it. The mission is only to observe, yet neither of them care to go unarmed. “That dress is a nice color for you.”

“Thanks,” Sombra says. The dress is the color she most often wears, and Widow’s not even looking at her, eyes focused on the road.

It could be a sly dig. She has no doubt Widow is still capable of the subtle jibes meant to pass as wit among women of a certain status, but she doesn’t think Widow’s the sort to do it without a purpose. There would be no purpose for it here. Besides, she makes Widow smile sometimes.

She doesn’t think it’s a dig at all. Sombra adjusts her assumptions again.

 

* * *

 

They have no trouble getting into the gala. The invitations Sombra cooked up are perfect replicas, and their aliases have been on the guest list for a week now.

The people surrounding them are the exact mix of boring and infuriating she’s always found wealthy people to be, but Widow is a good companion. She has a unique talent for appearing inviting to the omnics circling the party with hors d’oeuvres before she instantly returns to looking cruelly aloof. As promised, it keeps interlopers away. Toward Sombra herself, Widow attempts to act out what Sombra thinks is meant to pass for flirting between two stiff, overly formal people. It’s amusing for a few minutes before it starts to feel uncomfortable.

There’s no sign yet of the politician they’re meant to watch, and there’s only so much Sombra can take of Widow’s bad acting and of staring at the same handful of paintings in their corner of the gallery. She waits until Widow has a mouthful of canapé before she says, “Red bowtie over there pays women to treat him like furniture.”

Widow’s surprised cough and muttered _merde_ is as gratifying as Sombra expected. What’s unexpected is Widow’s follow-up: “Not just women. Omnics too, I think.”

Sombra can’t help her grin. “What makes you say that?” she asks.

“Watch him with the waiters.”

After a moment she decides that Widow is almost certainly correct. Sombra will check later and add it to his file if it turns out to be true. “Aren’t you full of surprises tonight?”

Widow takes a sip of her drink, but Sombra catches the flash of a quick, tiny smile over the rim of her glass.

They make it a game. Sombra tells her the funnier, mostly inconsequential dirt she has on the evening’s guests, and Widow occasionally answers with what’s observable here and now. She doesn’t know what to make of the tacit confession that Widow sees far more than she lets on; she wonders what else Widow’s observed that nobody’s bothered to hide in the face of her seeming disinterest. She wonders if it means something that Widow’s letting her in on this information. It’s fun either way, and Widow continues to smile.

Security has started to grow in number. The Helix agents seem to think they’re subtle, but they’re easy to spot, even those dressed as guests. There’s a martial stiffness to them that signals what they are to any keen observer. Widow touches Sombra’s wrist to get her attention; her fingers are cool but not unpleasantly so. Sombra noticed the security already, but still she turns, tilts her head up higher than she’d like to in order to catch Widow’s eye. “Problem?” Sombra asks quietly.

Widow’s eyes flick in the direction of the front door, and Sombra curses under her breath.

She checked; she _triple_ -checked. Fareeha Amari was not on the roster for tonight’s security detail, not as of two minutes before they arrived. And yet here she is, one of the few people in the world who might recognize Widow and wish to do something about it.

They make their way toward one of the closed off wings as casually as they can, Sombra’s heart in her throat the whole time. There are guards posted, but they are bored and easily distracted. Easy enough to slip past.

The hallway is dark, but it’s also long and their footsteps echo, so Sombra pulls Widow aside into an alcove so they can regroup. Widow’s slim fingers fully encircle her wrist now; she never did let go. That realization is accompanied by another: if Sombra shifts her weight, her knees and chest brush against Widow’s body. Her cheeks feel hot.

Widow, strangely, still wears her tiny smile. Sombra can still feel her heart pounding too quickly, but she answers it with one of her own. “Twenty meters that way—” Sombra points “—there’s a fire exit.”

Then Widow’s pulling away and pulling Sombra along with her, and Sombra has to take three steps for every two of Widow’s long strides. At the exit, Sombra shuts down the automatic alarm, then they’re out in the night air, heels punching holes in a small patch of grass before they’re back on paved ground and the city begins to swallow them. They don’t stop walking until they’re several blocks away, moving toward denser crowds and vivid neon lighting.

Widow stops suddenly and tugs Sombra under a dark awning by the wrist she’s still holding. “Thank you,” Widow says quietly. “I don’t know why—” Widow starts, then stops herself. Sombra doesn’t need her to say the rest. She could have left Widow at any time. It would have been easier. Almost definitely smarter.

She looks up and up until she meets Widow’s eye. She could blame Widow for refusing to let go. Instead she says, “Don’t mention it.”

There’s a pause, a tension that vibrates in the chilly, damp air. Then Widow bends down and kisses her. It should surprise her, but it doesn’t. Instead it feels like a logical conclusion.

Widow kisses carefully and with her eyes open — still watching too closely — and so does Sombra.

It’s tentative until it’s not. When Sombra doesn’t pull away, Widow finally lets go of her wrist, draws her in instead with a palm at her back. Sombra drags her down by the jacket’s lapels and kisses her again, taken off guard by her own urgency and by Widow’s quick stuttering breaths as she works to keep up.

Widow’s eyes close, so Sombra’s do too.

They’ll have to stick around to collect the car anyway. Sombra figures Akande can afford the swanky hotel room she books.


End file.
